


This Could Take All Night

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: Closing in Closer to You [4]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Dom!Clara, F/F, F/M, Light Bondage, Open Relationships, Porn With Plot, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 09:47:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7503679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They'd agreed upon an open relationship, even if the Doctor had told Clara that he was content with her and needed nothing more. But when she returns to the TARDIS after a series of liaisons, she is surprised to find that he's been less faithful than she anticipated... and that his choice of lover is a familiar face. Uncertain, angry, and maybe a <em>tiny</em> bit aroused, Clara is forced to be frank with him, and the Doctor quickly finds that two Claras are better than one...</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Could Take All Night

**Author's Note:**

> Part four of my smut series! Wooooooo. Sorry it's been such a long time coming. (Accidentally excellent choice of words... oops.) 
> 
> Many elements of this have been inspired by Tumblr posts about the pair of them (including the slap.) 
> 
> Anyway. For Lostboy, whose wonderful comments on these fics never fail to make me smirk delectably, and for Colinzeal, whose idea this was.

It had been months, but she was still surprised by some of the things he let her do to him. Still surprised by the moans she could elicit from him by applying pressure just _so_ to different parts of his body, or by whispering to him as he tinkered with the console of the TARDIS, his fingers making deft work of things that weren't her and thus provoking both her jealousy and her need. Discovering his submissive streak had been a happy accident, revealed the first time she'd straddled him and kissed him compliant, muffled his protestations with her mouth and then whispered firmly into his ear "Ms Oswald says silence." He'd whimpered then, begging for her non–verbally, and the sheer shock that the Time Lord was putty in her hands, that he would acquiesce to her will in the bedroom of all places, was almost enough to make her come instantly. 

Of course, things had escalated from there on in. Very soon, words weren't enough for Clara and so she'd blindfolded him experimentally, commanding him to remain still, but of course the second she'd run her hand over his cock, his self–control had melted away and he'd all but fucked her senseless, his movements messy and frantic as he refused to remove the cloth from his eyes, his arms and hands too busy pinning Clara down. The encounter served as a brief interlude in her dominant streak, as she allowed him to bite her throat and mark her as his own, making a mental note to invest in something to punish him with in the near–future, determined not to relinquish control again. 

So the next time she’d fucked him, she'd given him a safeword and then distracted him with kisses as her hands made nimble work of the velvet ropes she had affixed to the headboard, noting smugly his immediate acceptance of submissiveness and immobility, as well as the way he looked at her with absolute trust. Somehow it only served to turn her on further, knowing that this Time Lord, this saver of worlds, this Oncoming Storm was her own personal slave, that she could dominate him with ease, and when he'd almost complained – thought about it, the words half out, before he realised that with his utterance she had pulled away from him infinitesimally – she'd only leaned down and purred a hint in his ear about how much she loved velvet, how much she adored the feel of it against her bare skin, as she sank down on his cock with a quiet, self–satisfied moan. 

Thus the next time they fucked, he had worn his velvet coat, allowed her to rub against him lasciviously before she eventually consented to him being on top, the coat engulfing her, soft enough against her nipples and stomach to make her moan but not quite enough alone to make her come. But then they’d discovered sweat stains on the velvet the next day and unwillingly resolved not to use the coat again, opting instead for soft velveteen gloves which satiated Clara's fetish only partially. Yet each time he wore the coat after that, she smirked a little as she ran her fingers over the fabric, the texture causing her to grow wet between her thighs as she fought to maintain a modicum of self-control, and he would rub against her a little to tease, and inevitably they would end up naked in bed together, fucking like teenagers in need of release. 

Two weeks later they were trying to save a settlement, the two of them pressed together in an alcove, and through the thin cotton of Clara’s dress, the Doctor had noted with surprise that she was not wearing a bra, even as she began to grind against him and his coat with the kind of single–minded determination he wanted to find annoying. Instead he felt his cock twitch, and before he could rationalise, the next thing he knew he was inside her, thrusting desperately as she moaned against his shoulder, her hands tangled in his hair as she came. The civilisation fell, and he got cum on the sleeve of his jacket. They both admitted the latter was the more pressing issue.

Despite their activities in the bedroom, she had been most surprised when he had capitulated to her will surrounding her... Proclivities. Even more so when he'd firmly insisted upon his own fidelity, given that she'd assumed – perhaps naively – that he might wish to seek a relationship in which he could, for once, take the reins. Yet instead he had told her in no uncertain terms that she was to do as she wished, on the condition that when she report back to him she offer explicit details of her conquests, thus they could both seek further gratification in each other's embrace. It had seemed a reasonable condition, and she had agreed at once. 

Of course, she'd sought out an echo first. She was morbidly curious to see if she was able to locate one, and to see what she would be brave enough to do if she was able to. She was surprised when the TARDIS had allowed her to land, neatly, on a bustling street in 1891, and the first face she saw was her own, mirrored back to her: a girl in a crimson dress, an extravagantly stacked corset laced carefully in order to maximise the impact of her voluptuous chest – _gods, was that really what her boobs looked like to the Doctor_? – and she'd grinned then, knowing that she _would_ be able to go ahead with her plan. That night, they'd spent hours fucking each other – the experience ungainly and a little awkward, as the _other_ her was uncertain and inexperienced – before she'd disappeared, leaving Clara Oswin Oswald, barmaid and occasional governess, to wonder whether she might have had a particularly vivid erotic dream.

The next echo she encountered had been far more wild than her Victorian counterpart. Teeth and nails and a wild nature that only served to fuel Clara's desire for her, their night together was a battle of wills as they fought for dominance of each other, each refusing to bow to the other woman's will, each of them refusing to let the other come before themselves and thus each crashing, by a silent agreement, to a mutual climax some two hours after the first items of their clothing had been cast aside. The next day, Clara had returned to the TARDIS, aching but grinning, her neck covered in purple marks that only provoked the Doctor into growling possessively and dipping his lips to her throat as he ripped open her shirt roughly, snarling a single, reflexive word as he slipped his hand down her jeans: _mine._  

After that, it had been a parade of self–fucking – as she called it privately, always refusing to allow the Doctor to know the identity of the women she was with – one echo after another, culminating with a particularly salacious visit to Buckingham Palace and the arms of a young Queen Victoria. Clara had found her petulant and demanding at first, unwilling to allow herself to be ordered around by someone she had deemed aloud to be "a common girl from the north," but she had quickly submitted to Clara, body and soul, and that night Clara had her first taste of fucking a monarch senseless. She left her the next morning, deliciously ruffled and desperately needy, begging Clara to remain, but of course she had only grinned and slipped from the room, running back to the TARDIS on bare feet as Victoria roared for her guards. 

However, after her interlude with Missy, she had been far more careful. Unwilling to add fuel to any blackmail fires that burned in the Time Lady's mind, she'd played it safe, starting with a quick visit to Jane Austen, where she'd convinced her old friend that a dip into eroticism could prove amusing, curling around Jane as she wrote late into the night, occasionally pausing to kiss Clara languidly or enact some of the things that flowed from her pen. She'd taken the pages of spidery handwriting with her the next day, of course, unwilling to corrupt history, deeming her course of action both fruitful and practical. She'd tried to maintain that attitude as she read and reread the erotica in the depths of nights she spent alone, but even as she ground into her hand and drove herself to a quiet, muffled climax, she couldn't help but smirk a little at the thought of corrupting such a bastion of English fortitude as Jane Austen. 

After Jane, she had placed an idle call to Ashildr – she refused to call her _Me_ , too thrown off by the implications of previous selfcest – and spent a happy two days romping with her on a planet far removed from Clara's own, the two lovers barely turning heads as they kissed in public against a wall, hands groping at each other, and it wasn't until Clara heard a camera click that she broke away, wild–eyed and gasping, wiping her mouth as she dragged the younger girl back to their lodgings by the hand. They had all the time in the world, of course, but lust waits for no one.

 

* * *

 

As she stumbled through the TARDIS doors, still giddy from her experiences with Ashildr, the smell of sex clinging to her, the first thing she noticed was the lack of her husband. While her return had not been forewarned, he'd told her casually once that he'd set an alert system – _warning, proximal well–fucked Clara encroaching_ – and thus his absence from the control room was unnerving, the emptiness of the space draining the colour from her cheeks as she looked around, worried that he wasn't there to welcome her triumphantly home. Of course, there was a very real probability that he had lied about the warning system, and that he simply sat waiting for her in the console room when she wasn't there, probably alternately tinkering with the TARDIS and himself, in which case his absence was only a more pressing concern. 

"Hello?" She called, to no response. "I'm back!"

Still nothing, the room silent save for the occasional beeping of the console. She set down her bag in a corner and put on her sternest of teacher faces, primarily to hide the tremor in her bottom lip, then advanced into the corridors beyond the console, looking around her apprehensively as she did so, afraid of what she might find. 

"Doctor?" she called as loudly as she dared, wondering if he could have grown distracted in his workshop, before she realised that the TARDIS was leading her – with something she sensed was akin to regret – towards his bedroom door, and as her hand reached for the wood, she knew with sudden terrible, impending clarity what she was going to find. 

As the door swung open, she took in the sight before her, tears springing to her eyes.

The Doctor lay on the bed, buck–naked from the waist down, his top half clad only in the holey hoodie she loved so well. He was so intent on the person underneath him, on alternately moaning and growling commands into her ear, that he failed to notice his wife stood in the doorway for a full thirty seconds, focused as he was on the woman he was fucking. 

"What–" Clara managed, and he froze at the sound of her voice, turning to face her, and it was then that she saw who he was with, who he had chosen to screw in her absence, and she felt her blood run cold, white–hot anger pulsing through her veins as she understood what, precisely, she was seeing. "What the _fuck_?!" 

"Clara, I can explain..." he began, sitting up and pulling away from the girl on the bed, the girl who shared her face and her body and her cunt and almost certainly her voice, for if he was aiming for a carbon copy he would strive for every last detail to be perfect. "Clara..." he reiterated, as he pulled on a dressing gown and took a step towards her, reaching for her arm as the girl on the bed tugged the sheets over herself, stunned into silence by the arrival of a woman who appeared to be her double. 

"Don't fucking touch me," Clara snarled, slapping him as hard as she could manage, and to her fury he moaned – moaned, long and loud, the sting of her hand and the burn of her anger condensing to only heighten his arousal – his eyes filling with shame at the involuntary action. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" 

"Nothing's wrong! It's just... You've been gone a while!" 

"Two days!"

"Two MONTHS!" 

"What do you mean?!" She asked, incredulous at his words, refusing to believe that she had made the kind of navigational error she teased him for on a regular basis. "I was careful – I programmed the TARDIS perfectly!" 

"Clara, Clara, Clara... Apalosian time is different to–" 

"I don't fucking care!" She cut him off, her face contorted with fury as he attempted to excuse his behaviour and explain away the presence of the girl on the bed. "You couldn't keep your dick under control for two months, no, you _had_ to go and find one of my echoes... How long has this been going on?" 

"I..." 

"You," she spoke directly to the girl on the bed, glaring at her with as much venom as she could manage. "How many times has he fucked you?" 

"I... Urm..." She hesitated for half a second, silently counting, trying to decide whether lying would prove advantageous and opting instead to tell the truth. "F–five? Maybe six?" 

"You _bastard,"_ Clara swore, her attention returning to her husband, and she raised her hand to slap him again, but found his hand gripping her wrist before she could do so. "You absolute fucking _bastard_." 

"You gave me the option!" He yelled back, feeling his temper flare in response to her anger, the hypocrisy of her actions serving only to make him more furious. "You _asked_ me if I wanted to!" 

"And you said no!" Clara retorted immediately, scowling blackly at him yet feeling a slight twinge of guilt at her reaction to this situation. "You _told_ me you weren't interested! And yet I come home and find you fucking one of my echoes!" 

"It's... My name's Rachel, if you're interested," the girl interjected, earning her a dark look from Clara. 

"I'm not. Stay out of this." She turned her attention back to her husband. "And _you_ , stay out of her. I'm going to my room to wank over your last face." She spun on her heel and stalked from the room, leaving the Doctor to stare after her in bemusement. 

"Oh, really _bloody_ mature!" He shouted after her, determined to have the last word in this argument. "Using him against me!" 

"Says the man who's been _moving_ himself another version of me... Six times…" 

"Dammit," he muttered under his breath, knowing he had been bested, watching as she disappeared down the corridor before turning back to Rachel with an an apologetic shrug. “Sorry about her.”

 

* * *

 

Clara was winding him up, of course. In reality, she was too angry to consider doing anything than throwing a framed photo of them across the room, listening to the glass shatter with satisfaction and watching it fall to the floor in a mangled wreck of splintered wood and broken glass, the photo landing on the top of the pile in an untidy mess. _Good_ , she thought to herself bitterly, pleased with the cathartic effect it had on her. _That'll show him, the bastard_. 

Whilst a part of her was aware that she had given him the option of playing away and seeing other people, she had considered his declining of her offer to be definitive and set in stone. He didn’t want to see other people, didn’t want to be with other people, and she had thought that this choice was thus something he would stick to, unwilling as he was to shag anyone other than herself. As it was, she wasn't sure which hurt her more: his shagging someone else, his admission to the fact he had done so after two months alone, or the fact it was with one of her own echoes. Each facet of the betrayal tore at her more intensely, culminating with the fact that he had been in control. He, who so enjoyed being submissive, had been the dominant party in the... Well, in the whatever–the–fuck–she'd–just–witnessed. An affair? A liaison? An idle part of her brain wondered if it technically counted as an affair if the mistress was functionally an echo of the wife, but she tried to overlook that feeling, shuddering softly at the prospect. 

There was a soft knock at the door, and Clara screamed in frustration. " _What_?" she roared, more surprised than ever when her own echo edged into the room, now mercifully dressed and wearing an expression of deepest contrition. With Clara shocked into silence, the girl took the chance to speak, her words tumbling out unchecked as she looked down at the floor with shame. 

"Hi," she began uncertainly, and Clara had been right – the same voice, down to the mannerisms and the intonation. _He has_ , she grudgingly thought, _really done his homework with this one_. "Look, I didn't... He wanted this to be some kind of... I don't know, he didn't do a lot of explaining. I think I was meant to be a gift for someone – but then he said something about his _wife_ and I was totally gonna bail, because that’s really not my thing at all, but, well... you know, he's hot." She shrugged casually, chancing a cheeky grin at Clara. "What can I say?" 

"You let him dominate you," Clara said with a glare, watching the girl’s face fall at her accusatory tone. "You're not a very good _me_ if you let him take charge." 

"I'm not _you_ at all." 

"You walk and talk and look like me," Clara argued stubbornly. "You probably fuck like me too. So what's the difference?" 

"We aren't the same!" The echo protested, scowling back at her. " _You're_ Clara, _I'm_ Rachel. Different times of origin, different hopes and dreams... I have my own life, my own family, my own job. I work hard to support my mum, cos she’s ill, and my dad, who’s trying to take care of her, and I hate my job but shit, I do it anyway, because I have responsibilities. I’m not living life as a wanderer, because I can’t. I’m not able to have this life you have here – the two of you, not a care in the world – even though, god knows, I would give my bloody right arm to travel. But I'm not you, Clara, and I never will be. I'm not _trying_ to be."

Clara sighed, realising that her somewhat reductionist view of her echoes would have to change. She never contemplated their lives, never contemplated the ways in which they were different, often too concentrated on the ways in which they were the same and exploiting those similarities for her own gain. "Sorry," she mumbled, sighing again. "Look, I'm sorry... I've met a few of you before, but..." 

"Guessing you didn't do much talking," Rachel smirked widely, in a way that suggested she knew what Clara had been up to. "Bit busy?"

"God, you _are_ basically me – enough with the sarcasm." Clara rolled her eyes, but without malice. "I talked to some of them, but it's... Difficult, sometimes. Generally speaking, we just talk a little, then we flirt, then when we’re both turned on enough, we have sex. I'm not proud of that fact, but there you go. Judge away." 

"I’m not judging,” Rachel confessed. “But you could change that, get to know some of us, actually find out more about who we are." 

"By which you mean find out about _you_ , the woman who's shagging my husband."

"...says the woman who's shagging _herself_." 

"Shit, that isn't fair," Clara groused, groaning in complaint at her echo’s barb and knowing that this would be a battle of wills. "Play nice." 

"Or what?" 

"Or I'll make you." 

"Ladies, ladies..." The Doctor interjected, striding into the room without knocking and appraising the situation with a glance. "This is a lovely little chat, but Rachel, can I please have five minutes alone with my wife?" 

"Sure," Rachel muttered, eyeing Clara warily as she sidled to the door. "I'll be um... in the library." 

"Clara, you don't have any weapons, do you?" The Doctor asked nervously after Rachel had gone, and her gaze flicked over to the broken glass surrounding the photo frame, drawing his attention to it for the first time. "Clara..." He said heavily, and she was surprised to note the sadness in his tone as he picked up the remains of the frame, the photo scratched down the middle, creating a division between the two of them that could be as literal as it was symbolic. He looked up at her with wide, hurt eyes. "Is this what you want?" 

"What?" 

"Us to be broken and apart and a mess." 

"Doctor, you are _not_ using that photo frame as a metaphor." 

"Yes I am. Is this what you want? Our marriage to be a broken, spiky mess, destroyed by anger?" 

"I don't know; do you want our marriage to be damaged by your infidelity?" 

"Oh, that's not to mention yours, then?" he said snidely, throwing his hands in the air as he spoke, his frustration evident. "All those women you parade through here, one after the other? What’s that, if not infidelity?" 

"What, so it bothers you?" 

"No!" He protested immediately, then backtracked: "Yes! Maybe! I don't know… it bothers me how you've reacted to me doing the exact same thing. Throwing your toys out the pram like a spoiled child." 

"Well I don't like sharing!" She blurted, surprised by her own confession. "OK? I don’t want to share you!" 

"So you want to have your cake and eat it, but I'm supposed to make do with my own tiny slice of cake?" 

"I'm not a tiny slice of cake!" Clara protested, half–seriously, attempting to lighten the situation with humour. "I'm a _whole_ cake, minimum." 

"You're quite short–" 

"We’re digressing from the issue," she said bluntly, deciding to address the problem: "I'm jealous of you being with other women. So what?" 

"So…" he said softly, looking up at her and making eye contact for the first time that day. "You might have to learn to share. Especially since Rachel is, strictly speaking, a gift for you." 

"You got me a gift... Of myself...?" 

"Says the woman who's been shagging herself for weeks. I thought we could share this one." 

"I'm not an object," came a muffled voice from outside the door, and both human and Time Lord jumped as Rachel sidled back into the room, a slightly apologetic look on her face. "I'm a person. Not some weird sex toy for you guys to use."

"How long have you..." Clara paused, appraising her own personality and concluding: "Who am I kidding? Probably the whole time." 

"I felt bad about you arguing, so I wanted to be able to defend myself. Or him. Whichever." 

"Don't feel bad," Clara said with surprising gentleness, smiling at her echo. "This honestly isn't your fault." 

"So it's mine?" The Doctor asked with irritation, rolling his eyes impatiently. "Thanks a bunch." 

"I didn't say that!" She protested, exhaling slowly as she looked up at him. "Look, I'm very touched that you decided to seduce someone as a gift for me, even though it's totally kind of weird." 

"How is it weird?!"

"Doctor, how would you feel if I bought you a present and then you came home and found me playing with it?" 

"I'm not an object!" Rachel protested again, and Clara gave her a long look.

"Rachel, I know," she sighed, explaining as simply as she could: "But he's not good at social situations, so this is making it easy for him." 

"But you're married to each other," her echo pointed out, and Clara laughed. 

"Believe me, that took some doing. Now, Mr Time Lord. An answer, please." 

"I'd be a bit... Put out, I guess. A bit not-happy about the whole thing." 

"Good. Specifically, why?" 

"Because it's a nice thing for me, not for you, and you shouldn’t play with it until I've said you can play with it, because that’s rude." 

"There we go. Good boy." 

" _Boy_?!" Rachel asked, barely suppressing a laugh at the use of the term. "He's like, ancient." 

"Didn't stop you shagging him," Clara observed drily. "So shut it."

"Clara, I'm sorry, OK?” The Time Lord began. “I didn't think. I don't ever have to think about things because usually you're here telling me what to do and what to say and how to manage. But you weren't here and I remembered when you gave me permission... Kind of... And so I just tried to think what you'd do, and I got it wrong. I'm sorry. Please, let's not mess everything up over this. Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I’m a bloody idiot, I don’t deserve you, love."

"You daft old man," she murmured fondly, reaching over to cup his cheek and ignoring his reflexive flinch, stroking her thumb over the arch of his cheekbone. "I'm not messing things up. I lost my temper and threw something. I'll fix it. And we’ll fix _this_ , OK? Because you do deserve me. Remember what you said once? ‘I’m exactly what you deserve.’ That’s true, ok, for me and you. You might be an idiot, but you’re _my_ idiot." 

He looked down, his eyes filling with tears as she forgave him. "What about Rachel?" he asked after a moment, too self-conscious to say anything more intimate, but he knew that Clara understood his gratitude for her words. 

"She can stay for a little bit, OK? But I fully intend to quiz you when she's not eavesdropping and get feedback." 

"On what?"

"Oh, you know, the important questions. Number of orgasms, technique, why you got to be in charge..." 

"Ah," the tips of his ears turned maroon. "About that..."

“Hush you,” she chided, and turned to Rachel. “Right. You, library, now. Properly this time. We’re about to get mushy and romantic, and if you already felt slightly like a homewrecker, but he made you feel better about things, then you might get all homewrecker-y again when you hear some of the stuff we’re about to say. So I would suggest a long walk, maybe making an apology cake. That sort of thing. Just generally scram.” 

“Yes’m,” Rachel muttered, and slunk out of the room, the TARDIS beeping softly to alert them both that she had reached the library, and was thus out of range of the conversation that was about to ensue. 

“Look,” the Doctor began, before Clara could speak. “I really am sorry, Clara, I didn’t… I never wanted to hurt you.” He looked at her, stricken with regret. “I made a mistake, I’m sorry, please…” 

“You are, categorically, an idiot.” Clara sighed. “Did you think I was just saying that stuff as lip service? I mean it; I love you, you daft old Time Lord. I love you and everything about you, including your woeful lack of social skills. You wanted to do something nice and you messed up a little bit. That’s the story of us, really, isn’t it?” 

“I guess,” he mumbled, sitting down on her bed with a grimace. “Look, I don’t… you know I’m not good with feelings, but…” he trailed off, staring down at his clasped hands, complaining only minimally as Clara sank onto his lap. 

“But?” she asked, nuzzling into his neck with a small smile, tracing the lapels of his robe with her fingertip.

“I love you,” he said quietly, kissing her hair in a surprisingly tender gesture. “I love you, Clara Oswald, and I’m sorry for messing up, and I’m sorry for not asking permission, and I’m sorry for-” 

“You don’t have to apologise for everything you’ve ever done, or you might be there a while,” she said drily, and he chuckled a little then, relieved that he could stop. “Thank you for… well, the three words. Coming from you, it’s a big deal.” 

“I just…” he sighed a little, his arms wrapping round her tenderly as she snuggled further into his chest. “Sometimes I feel like we just concentrate too much on… physical stuff. But I do love you. And I don’t want you to think I don’t.” 

“I know,” she assured him softly, slipping her palm under his dressing gown and feeling his heart hammering away. “I guess there isn’t always the time to tell each other that, in between… what we do.” 

“I, urm…” he closed his eyes for a moment, unable to look at her as he said the words. “I guess as well, Rachel was a present, but I also wanted… don’t make me say it.” 

“Say what?” she teased lightly, but her heart was racing as she wondered what he was going to say. “Tell me.” 

“I guess I maybe wanted to have this conversation, but I didn’t know how,” he mumbled, ashamed. “I thought maybe…” 

“You thought that she’d make me jealous and I’d make a confession about how I felt, because you know me and you know how I’d react.” Clara finished, looking up at him and smiling reassuringly. “See? You’re not all that bad at reading my feelings, you know.” 

“I’m an idiot,” he reiterated, looking away from her, considering himself unworthy of her love in that instant. “I’m a stupid, socially awkward-” 

“Hey,” Clara said tenderly, placing her palms on his cheeks and forcing him to look down at her. “Enough with the put-downs. You’re kind, and you love me, and you’re just bad at saying that because you’re shy. You’re a good man. A good Time Lord. And I love you because of it.” 

“So we’re not gonna… I don’t know, split up, or whatever humans do?” 

“No, Doctor,” she assured him gently. “We’re not going to split up, not least because you need a companion to keep you sane. And, you know, we _are_ married.” 

“That we are,” he acknowledged with a chuckle. “Wife.”

She kissed him gently then, moved by his words yet hesitant that he might pull away. One of his hands moved to rest on the back of her neck, and when she broke the kiss a moment later, her cheeks were flushed as she cast her eyes down, tucking her forehead under his chin to avoid meeting his gaze. 

“What?” the Doctor asked worriedly, stroking a soothing pattern on her back as she took deep breaths. “Did I do something wrong?” 

“No,” she said in a small voice, speaking mostly into his chest. “I want you.” 

“Clara, ten minutes ago, I feared for my life,” he protested half-heartedly as her hands slid inside his robe. “And now…”

“Now I really need to be close to you. Please. I promise I won’t take charge. I just… please.” 

“Clara…” he said again, but then she looked up and he saw the look in her eyes, feeling his resolve crumble.

It was not the same as their usual frenzied acts of intimacy. They undressed each other slowly, following fabric with warm lips and gentle fingertips, murmurs of affection being lost in quiet, exhaled laughs as he battled with her jeans and her bra, her hands working alongside his until finally she was laid bare beside him, perfectly motionless, her eyes alight with need as she looked up at him, smiling permissively as he ran his hand from her thigh to her sternum, walking his fingers idly from there to her throat. She mewed a little then – a quiet, reluctant sound as she moved closer to him and wrapped a leg around his waist, drawing him to her as she arched her back and urged his mouth to meet her own, his hands falling either side of her head as he kissed her until she moaned. 

“Clara, love,” he murmured into her ear, her gasping for breath underneath him, his cock hot against her thigh as she fought the urge to grind against him. “Do you want to…” 

“You on top,” she mumbled, her hands moving around to his back, settling on the nubs of his shoulder blades and drawing him closer to her. “Please. Need you… please.” 

She didn’t need to say more as he entered her gently and slowly, her soft exhale warm against his neck. As he began to move, each motion carefully measured against her breathing and her pulse and a thousand other physiological responses he could map every second, he felt her presence in his mind, a familiar intrusion that was, for once, surprisingly undemanding. 

 _Please,_ she urged him silently. _Less thinking. More feeling._

He didn’t need to be told twice.

 

* * *

 

They reappeared from Clara’s room some considerable time later, both a little flushed and out of breath but their hands firmly entwined. Rachel put down the book she had been reading and stood up. 

“So,” she said with a small shrug, dusting herself down and taking a couple of steps towards the door. “Guess I’ll be off then, now you’re all… happy and married and shit.” 

“Don’t be silly,” Clara said immediately, grabbing her hand and pulling her back towards them. “You’ve been staying in the TARDIS, right? It would be unfair to kick you out now.” 

“Does this have anything to do with the fact that I’m still _technically_ a gift for you?” Rachel asked suspiciously, wrinkling her nose a little as she contemplated the prospect of sleeping with Clara. It wasn’t a terrible one. “Perchance?” 

“Might be,” Clara admitted with a grin, looking between her husband and her echo with an unreadable expression. “It might also be that he wants to get laid again, and I might be tired… although that’s frankly unlikely. Also…” she smiled at her echo more warmly. “I want to get to know you. Properly.” 

“Not just for sex?” Rachel narrowed her eyes suspiciously, unsure of Clara’s motives, but knowing that she would stay either way purely out of curiosity. 

“Not just for sex. Although there may be sex involved, separately to us getting to know each other, because I’ve seen you looking at me. Don’t deny it.” 

“Clara, don’t be such an egomaniac,” the Doctor chastised in exasperation. “Not _everyone_ wants to shag you.” 

“Just most people,” Clara grinned at him, then looked to Rachel with a knowing wink. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you’re not even a tiny bit curious.” 

“I’m not even… ah, hell. Come on, no fair.” 

“So I’m stuck on a TARDIS with _two_ egomaniacs with rampant sex drives…” The Doctor complained, and both women turned their attention to him simultaneously, raising their eyebrows in an identical motion. 

“You did bring this on yourself,” Rachel said sternly, her eyes sliding left to look at Clara, who was barely suppressing a giggle. 

“Yeah, I mean… you invited her in,” Clara added innocently. “So really… this is a hell of your own making. Although it could be a heaven. If you play your cards right.” 

“Lord help me, I’m going to die,” he pleaded, casting his eyes upwards towards the ceiling. “Gods, if you’re up there…”

“They’ll be getting good tickets to the show,” Clara said firmly, kissing him on the cheek and then taking Rachel’s hand. “Now, if you want us, we’ll be in the kitchen.”

 

* * *

 

After dinner, the Doctor wandered the corridors of the TARDIS alone, hunting for his wife or Rachel while idly spooning ice cream into his mouth every few metres. They had made him dinner – eventually, once they’d stopped talking for long enough to prepare food – and sat with him to eat, before disappearing off together with mischievous giggles and secretive looks, and he understood women, or at least Clara, well enough to know that they wanted to be alone. Whether that was to talk or something more intimate, he couldn’t and wouldn’t guess. 

The only problem was, that had been hours ago, and now he wanted to go to bed. He couldn’t do that without bidding his wife goodnight – and some distant part of his memory suggested he extend the same courtesy to their guest – and he certainly couldn’t do that unless he knew where they _were._ So he paced, and he searched, and he ate ice cream, and he was almost at the bottom of the carton before he ventured into the library, finding the two women curled up together on a loveseat, a slew of books surrounding them as they slept in each other’s arms. 

“Clara?” he murmured softly, but she only whimpered a little and nuzzled into her echo, their dark hair a smudge against the crimson leather. He smiled and fetched a blanket, laying it over them tenderly and then planting a soft kiss to each of their foreheads, leaving them to rest.

 

* * *

 

It took them all a while to adjust to the new arrangement. The Doctor, at first, struggled with telling the two women apart, which began to grate on both of their tempers after several days of awkward encounters and aborted attempts at initiating sex. Eventually, Rachel had capitulated and decided to wear only red, while Clara stuck to blue, and although the Doctor grew more comfortable with them both, he still occasionally failed to work out how to tell the difference between the two women – or as he called them, _his Claras._ He took to watching them for hours – both obviously and secretly, sometimes from the safety of his workshop, and learned what identified each woman – myriad tiny behaviours that varied between the two of them enough for him to be able to recognise who was who: Clara would tuck her hair to the left, Rachel to the right; Clara would tilt her head one way with aroused curiosity, whereas Rachel favoured the opposite direction. He noted it all down obsessively, determined to prove himself to them, and yet still he mixed them up at least once daily. 

The two of them, to their credit, found his endless observations amusing. They would sit together in the library most evenings, Clara hacking into the TARDIS mainframe without his knowledge, watching him watching them in a form of inception that made her head hurt. Rachel would sit with her head against the extreme opposite arm of the sofa, flicking through Facebook on her phone idly and marvelling at the wonders of space travel, whilst her creator contemplated simply looking up at the camera she knew was there and making eye contact with her husband, but she knew that it would spoil their fun and restrained herself from doing so. 

“You know,” Clara said idly one evening as Rachel maintained the distance between them carefully. “As he’s watching us, we might as well give him something _to_ watch.” 

“What, you want to…?” Rachel asked, her tone somewhat stricken. She wasn’t sure if she was ready for that yet, ready to make that jump between friends and… well, _more._  

“No!” Clara assured her immediately, keen to allay her echo’s fears. “I just thought… you know; you could lean on me. Get a bit comfy. How about it? Cuddling?” 

“Are you sure?” Rachel asked worriedly, biting at a hangnail. “I mean…” 

“Rach,” Clara interjected impatiently. “We’ve spent… how long together, at this point? Chatting about… god knows, everything, really. I’m fine with physical intimacy. I’m not going to jump you just because your hair touches my neck.” 

“But…” 

“You fell asleep with me that first night,” Clara reminded her pointedly, raising her eyebrows fractionally. “Remember?” 

“Yes, and that was an accident!” 

“Hey!” Clara pouted in mock-affront, her eyes alight with laughter. “Rude. I’m not that bad.” 

“Sorry,” Rachel apologised immediately, sighing deeply. “I didn’t mean… I just, I don’t want to… I don’t know, freak you out.” 

“I’ve eaten out nine of my own doppelgangers,” Clara deadpanned, eliciting a laugh in response. “I don’t think a little bit of cuddling is going to freak me out too badly.” 

“If you’re sure,” Rachel mumbled after a moment’s consideration, edging a little closer to her and resting her head warily on Clara’s shoulder, nuzzling into her side comfortably and enjoying the feeling of reassurance she gleaned. “OK, that’s kinda nice, actually…” 

“See?” Clara pressed a kiss to Rachel’s temple. “Much comfier. Much nicer. Now. Tell me, what’s happening on future space Facebook. Who’s shagging who?” 

“Urm, no one really, but my brother is getting married, and my best friend had her baby,” Rachel said, biting down on her lip as she concentrated on recalling what she’d just seen. “Other than that, not much.”

“Well, that sounds cute!” Clara enthused, edging down in her seat fractionally so she could curl around Rachel more completely. “My Facebook is all just Farmville requests. Like anyone even plays that any more…” 

Her echo laughed warmly, about to reply when they were interrupted by the Doctor’s footsteps, his boots appearing in view first as their eyes travelled upwards. 

“Clara,” he said confidently to Rachel, who shook her head, and he swore. “Shit. Clara,” he began again, looking to his wife this time. “Are you two OK?” 

“Why wouldn’t we be OK?” 

“I dunno,” he shrugged awkwardly, fumbling for words. “I just figured maybe…”

“You figured that now we’re actually acting like we aren’t strangers, you might have to be worried about us?” Clara offered, enjoying his look of shock as comprehension dawned. “Yeah, we know about you watching us, weirdo.” 

“But how… how the…” 

“The TARDIS likes us,” Rachel said smugly, pressing a kiss to Clara’s cheek in celebration of rendering the Time Lord wordless momentarily. “Sorry, dude.” 

“Well,” he said with finality, before turning his attention upwards. “You’re _my_ ship _,_ ” he protested loudly, striding from the room while waving his arms in irritation. “ _Mine_! Not theirs! This isn’t funny, you know!” 

“Nice kiss on the cheek,” Clara teased, watching as Rachel blushed lightly, casting her gaze down in embarrassment at her over-exuberance. “Hey. Don’t look so freaked out. _I’m_ not freaking out, see?” 

“You’re hardly a role model,” Rachel muttered, but she looked up at her companion with a small smile. “But I guess you’re right.” 

“About?” 

“I don’t know. Being… close to you. It’s nice. Really.” 

“Well then,” Clara said, with a small secret smile. “I’ll take that as a start.”

 

* * *

 

“I have to go home,” Rachel said, for the tenth time that week, knowing she had a duty of care for her family. “I really, really ha-” 

She was cut off by a minute movement of Clara’s fingers inside of her, the other woman pressing her lips to her throat and sucking, hard enough to leave a mark. “Oh really?” Clara asked in a low voice, her tone faintly dangerous as she challenged: “Do you really, really have to?” 

“I really, really… _fuck,”_ she hissed, as Clara’s thumb brushed over her clit and she felt her knees tremble, threatening to give way. “Clara…” 

“What?” she asked, her eyes wide with innocence as she looked at the girl under her control with a sense of smugness. “What do you want?” 

“Clara, please…” Rachel mumbled, her eyes closing and her head falling back against the kitchen cupboards as moaned, Clara crooking her fingers expertly in a way that she _knew_ drove her wild. “Please…” 

“Please what?” Clara crooned softly, running her tongue along the hollow of Rachel’s throat. “Please let you go home, or please let you come?” 

“H- _oh god, Clara…”_ Rachel keened, her voice high pitched as Clara pinched down on her clit roughly, her teeth coming up to nip at the sensitive skin of her earlobe. “Please let me come. Please…” 

“Clara,” the Doctor said with resignation as he entered the room, flicking on the kettle and then pulling himself up to sit on the counter opposite them, surveying them coolly, largely unruffled by their activities. “Now, now. Don’t tease the poor girl.” 

“But it’s fuuuuun,” Clara complained, pouting somewhat petulantly and biting back the urge to giggle. “Don’t be a spoilsport.” 

“We’ll see who can be a spoilsport tonight, shall we? Maybe you don’t get to come tonight?” 

“No using sex against me.” 

“You’re using it against Rachel. Now, be nice, she looks like she’s forgotten how to breathe.” 

“Fine,” Clara muttered darkly, kissing her echo silent as she permitted her to come, then glaring at the Doctor as the girl panted against her neck, regaining her composure. “You’re no fun.” 

“And you’re not fair.” 

“Life isn’t fair.” Clara said tartly, pulling a face at him. “Didn’t _you_ teach me that?” 

“Oh I did,” he said brightly, leaping nimbly down from the counter and pulling mugs from a cupboard. “But as life isn’t fair, maybe I’ll choose Rachel tonight, not you…” 

“You wouldn’t dare…”

“He would,” Rachel said smugly, having regained enough composure to contemplate arguing back, entering into their banter seamlessly. “So be nice to me, Oswald.” 

“Doctor, why are we keeping this one?” Clara asked, tilting her head to one side as Rachel crossed the room to the Time Lord and kissed him one the cheek with a grin. 

“You like her, I like her, and as you once so poetically put it, _my dick_ likes her, so, less complaining and more coffee making.” 

“Fuck you,” she muttered under her breath, reaching into the fridge for milk while poking her tongue out at him rebelliously. “Don’t forget – we can _both_ rescind the privilege.” 

“You wouldn’t,” he challenged, his eyes steely, but she only laughed, Rachel joining her as they both seized mugs of hot, dark coffee and danced away from him. 

“Oh, wouldn’t we…?”


End file.
